


My Own Sweet Time

by Rhaella



Category: Sandman
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-12-13
Updated: 2008-12-13
Packaged: 2017-10-21 15:00:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/226500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rhaella/pseuds/Rhaella
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Cluracan’s conflict with his nemesis isn’t everything he might have expected. Narcissism ahoy! Spoilers through <em>The Wake</em>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	My Own Sweet Time

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [](http://imasupermuteant.livejournal.com/profile)[**imasupermuteant**](http://imasupermuteant.livejournal.com/). Happy very late birthday! And early Christmas! *is shot*

_And it won’t be in the Dreaming, where I was born,  
nor in Faerie, where you began, but in the wide worlds  
between I’ll come for you, hide and run how you may._  


* * *

“My queen, I regret to inform you that…”

The Cluracan breaks off, and his purposeful expression falls away. Titania is not present, and he would count himself fortunate to ever see her again. “I regret to inform you that you have destroyed me,” he mumbles. “Utterly. Completely.”

He is sitting on a withered tree stump beside a lake, and if he were to look behind him, he would still be able to see the ring of trees and the shallow river that mark the border of Faerie. The Cluracan does not, however, glance aside, for he knows that this too is only a border _of a sort_. Were he to cross that river, he would be no closer to Faerie than if he were to spin around in a circle and clap his hands three times.

(He’s already tried that; he knows that this time it won’t work.)

“ _Damnation_ ,” he hisses, and he hurls a rock at the lake. It skips three times across the surface of the water, and for a single instant, his reflection is shattered—

The Cluracan cries out and jumps to his feet, almost tripping over himself in his haste. “Just a trick of the light,” he murmurs as soon as he has again remembered how to breathe, “or that stone, more like.”

All the same, he moves away from the lake and the vision he saw therein – the Cluracan knows his reflection well enough to realize when he is not seeing it – as quickly as he might, even though it means to step even farther away from Faerie.

* * *

“Cluracan. This behaviour _ill becomes_ a denizen of Faerie,” Titania had said, momentarily glancing up from the roses that she had been tending. The Cluracan could see that she was barely paying him any attention at all, but this was to be expected with the Queen of Faerie.

“My lady?” he had tried to say, but a sharp glare from Titania quickly silenced him.

“I do not appreciate the way you has been _lurking_ around the realm, as if afraid to take a single step outside of it.” The Cluracan had begun to protest, but Titania simply raised her voice, “I’m _sure_ you have a perfectly reasonable excuse, but… how should I put it? I don’t _care_. I will no longer have you _languishing_ about.”

And she had smiled then, sharp and beautiful and full of promise. The Cluracan had known in that moment that he was doomed, for what in Faerie could be more dangerous than a promise and a gift?

Titania had pressed her fingers to her lips, though the gesture had done little to hide her smile. “Mayhap the change of scenery will do you some good, dear Cluracan.”

He doubted it then.

He still does.

* * *

There are few places outside of Faerie where the Cluracan could seek refuge, and fewer still that he is willing even to attempt. He tells himself that he is too proud to venture to the Dreaming – that he will not beseech the lord of the realm where his troubles began – and if there is more involved than simply that, well… the Cluracan has never been more than a creature of half-truths.

 _You’re afraid_ , a voice, eerily like his own, whispers to him. _You’re afraid you’ll manage to spawn a_ second _nemesis, and then where would you be?_

Laughter, wild and fey – more so even than his own – erupts, and the Cluracan cannot tell whether it is real or simply imagined.

 _Even should I survive this, I shall be quite mad_ , he decides unhappily. Aloud, he only says, “You aren’t real. And you _do not_ frighten me.” False bravado, but he has ever been good at that.

“Do I not?”

Smooth politesse, as he might expect from his own creation. The Cluracan spins around to find his nemesis lounging against a tree, watching him with too bright eyes, a smarmy smile across his lips and his horns nowhere to be seen. He’s still dressed in the same pristine white robes that he wore to Morpheus’ wake, and for that lie, the Cluracan hates him all the more.

“I would venture to say that _I do_ , and rather quite a bit.”

The… man (fairy? dream? – he isn’t quite certain how to identify a being such as this, and decides that in the end, it is all one and the same) pushes himself to his feet. Slowly, each step feral, he begins to walk towards the Cluracan, that irritating smile never fading.

( _Does mine really look like that?_ the Cluracan asks himself. He’s never noticed it before, but it’s something that mayhap he will need to address.)

“So Queen Mab finally tired of you, did she? I confess myself surprised that it has taken this long,” his nemesis says. “Still, I wonder if she would take greater pleasure in _me_.”

The Cluracan’s smile doesn’t come as easily as he would like, but it comes all the same. “Sirrah, you are at best a poor copy.” He leans forward, scorn dripping off of every word. “The Queen of Faerie would never be taken by such a ruse.”

“Taken?” his nemesis laughs. “My brother, you misunderstand my intent.”

The creature makes no attempt to explain himself, however. Instead he moves forward, walking past the Cluracan, and casually waves a hand towards him. “Fare thee well… but not overly so,” he says, and then strolls behind a tree and disappears, having offered no offence more damaging than words.  
 _  
Iron nails! What manner of game_ is _this?_

* * *

There is no small number of skills about which the Cluracan is able to boast, and he quickly finds that his nemesis is heir to all of them.

All the glamour, all the craft and subtlety of Faerie… well, it is no surprise to find a child of the Dreaming capable of such things as well. He might have claimed intent to destroy the Cluracan, but it soon becomes clear that he does not mean to accomplish this through strength of arms. He is no more a proponent of such direct methods than the Cluracan himself.

No, his nemesis may not be a warrior, but he can sow the seeds of doubt and despair as well as any of the fair folk.

The Cluracan is not accustomed to being on the receiving end of one of his games, and he finds that he doesn’t much like it. Had it been anybody else, he might have been able to outwit his opponent, but surely his nemesis can foresee his every scheme. The Cluracan knows that in every way that counts, he is struggling against himself.

It is unpleasant enough when his nemesis is not present – when the creature leaves him with naught but the promise of some undisclosed future contest. The subsequent disquiet seeps the enjoyment out of every pleasure that the Cluracan might pursue.

And yet when his nemesis appears, it is far worse.

* * *

“You have a distinctly _odd_ approach to the concept of destruction,” the Cluracan says, despite himself. Reminding his nemesis of his eventual goal is undoubtedly not the wisest course he could take, but he doesn’t care for the uncertainty. “I daresay this isn’t entirely… an effectual attempt.”

In fact, it hardly seems like an attempt at all. His nemesis is seated across from him, a bottle of mead held loosely in his hand. The drink is technically the Cluracan’s, but he had barely protested when his nemesis had taken it. _Better to be sober for this meeting_ , he had told himself. If nothing else, he would have an improved chance of overcoming his nemesis should he be attacked.  
 _  
And even should he not._

“I am your _nemesis_ , the Cluracan,” the man replies, biting off the words carefully and waving his bottle around. “All I _am_ is a reflection upon _you_. Why would I _ever_ behave in a direct manner?”

Why indeed.

His nemesis smiles, and the Cluracan can see the pointed teeth that betray his rather unique heritage. “One day, indubitably, I shall destroy you, but until that day should arrive…” He breaks off and shrugs, rising fluidly to his feet. A moment later, the Cluracan tenses, feeling the soft linen of his nemesis’ clothing rub against him as the creature brushes past, purposefully close.

“I daresay you will need this,” his nemesis murmurs, bending over him to drop the bottle of mead into his lap.

The Cluracan doesn’t bother to turn around, but he can hear the sound of receding footsteps, and knows that, for the moment, his nemesis has left. He is hardly relieved; he can read enough into the imitation’s behaviour to know that he will be back, and probably sooner, rather than later.

 _All I am is a reflection upon you._

The Cluracan groans, passing the back of his hand across his forehead. “What _monster_ have I spawned?”

* * *

His situation doesn’t seem quite so dismal, the Cluracan concludes, when he is drunk.

And, why! In this state, he could practically pretend that the face staring back at him truly is his own, rather than one that simply looks like it. The slight differences between them are less noticeable, and in this dim lighting, his nemesis becomes every bit as handsome as the Cluracan knows himself to be…

He doesn’t remember exactly when his nemesis showed up in this Irish bar – not the true, present-day Ireland, of course; simply one of the countless echoes of it that rest somewhere between the waking world and the Dreaming – and he doesn’t particularly care. He had already been too inebriated to muster much of a reaction when the creature had walked in and sat down beside him. “Not today,” his nemesis had suddenly assured him, laughter in his voice, and the Cluracan had relaxed despite himself.

“Twins?” the barkeep had asked from somewhere beyond them, and the Cluracan had watched as the imitation smiled disarmingly. “Aye, something like that.”

And the Cluracan had known in that instant, in a wine induced moment of clarity—

He was safe. This unspecified future conflict would never occur. If his nemesis were truly akin to him in every way that mattered, he would be far too enamoured of himself to ever resist an opportunity such as this: the existence of not one, but _two_ versions of himself. No, he did not plan to destroy the Cluracan; he meant for this game to continue forever…

And this, well… _this_ is a game that the Cluracan is well able to play.

“I wonder…” he muses aloud, his eyes roaming over his double. The Cluracan trails off, not bothering to finish his thought, and instead takes a large gulp of his wine. It tastes better now that he has decided that he’s not in danger.

“Yes?” his nemesis prompts.

“I wonder,” he repeats thoughtfully, setting his cup back upon the table. This, the Cluracan decides, is really the sort of opportunity one should not let go to waste. “I wonder if you’re _truly_ as like unto me as you seem…”

“You’re welcome to ascertain that for yourself,” his nemesis suggests, and the Cluracan cannot help but begin to laugh.

“Aye, I thought that might’ve been the case.”

* * *

His nemesis’ skin is as soft as his own, his reactions… analogous.

It’s difficult to think through the haze of wine, and the Cluracan soon gives up the attempt altogether. His nemesis quickly overpowers him, desperate as if he has something to prove – and perhaps he does. The Cluracan doesn’t care. As long as the sex is good, he doesn’t give a damn about the mechanics.

And it is good; that much is unquestionable. What more might have been possible?

 _Sometimes I amaze even myself,_ decides the Cluracan, breathless.

“I think, mayhap… I knew what I was doing when I stepped off the path in the Dreaming,” he tells his double afterwards, as he slowly dresses. “Mayhap I wished to have another such as myself in the worlds. The Dreaming _is_ , after all, the place for such fancies.”

“How very narcissistic of you,” his nemesis drawls.

“But another quality that we undoubtedly share,” the Cluracan lightly points out.

His nemesis smiles, though there is nothing pleasant about the expression. His horns have reappeared, and for the first time, the Cluracan can see that his feet are hoofed. “I rather think you err, the Cluracan,” says the satyr. “I may be your mirror, an echo of your being, but I am _decidedly_ not you.

“You should not put such faith in revelations made while in your cups.”

 _No_ , the Cluracan decides glumly. _No, clearly not. How embarrassing.  
_  
“Still, it was _enjoyable_ , and for that, I thank you.”

And then his nemesis is again gone, and in his absence, the room smells like nothing so much as sex and alcohol gone stale. Stupidity, and bad choices, and a dash of pleasure that doesn’t quite make up for it. Idly hoping that Queen Titania soon relents and allows him to return, the Cluracan buries his face in his hands.

Destruction, he decides, has many flavours, and he’s likely to soon taste all of them.


End file.
